


afraid of change, afraid of staying the same

by saddestboner



Series: Tumblr Prompts [19]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Angst, Future Fic, Gen, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Trade, References to Illness, Regret, Trade Deadline, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 00:19:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13822506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saddestboner/pseuds/saddestboner
Summary: This is the second time he’s been traded mid-season and, like the first time, he had been caught by surprise.





	afraid of change, afraid of staying the same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blastellanos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/gifts).



> Originally posted [here](http://nullrefer.com/?https://saddestboner.tumblr.com/post/171365273781/jos%C3%A9james-25) in response [this meme](http://nullrefer.com/?https://saddestboner.tumblr.com/post/171288033972/khirsahle-send-me-a-number-and-a-pairing-and). Enjoy your suffering, [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/profile)[**blastellanos**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/).
> 
>  **Additional Authors Notes/Warnings:** Vague references to the (non-RL, as far as I know) illness of a family member.
> 
> Title from "What a Good Boy," by Barenaked Ladies.

José’s in the clubhouse, hastily ripping the tape from around his wrists while a couple clubhouse attendants flit around him like hummingbirds, reaching around him to pluck things out of his locker and dump them in a cardboard box for him. 

This is the second time he’s been traded mid-season and, like the first time, he had been caught by surprise. 

He shouldn’t have been, is the thing. Avila had made it very clear that José wasn’t in the team’s plans for the future. That right there should’ve been the first clue that his days as a Tiger were numbered. But he’d gone into the regular season thinking he’d at least make it to July. 

It’s the beginning of May, the team is floundering, and he’s being shipped off to the West Coast.

José doesn’t mind the West Coast. He has some friends out in California, guys he used to play with in the Red Sox system, friends he made while he was toiling in the bus leagues. He’ll crash on someone’s couch until he can find a place of his own. One of his old Pawtucket buddies offered to let José rent out his condo while said friend is backpacking through Europe for the summer. 

José’s eyes sting and his chest tightens, but he isn’t going to cry. 

He thinks about his father, finally resigned to moving into a retirement community in Miami. He’ll have to uproot his father, _again_. José wishes he could leave him in Miami, but there’d be no one to take care of him with José gone.

He thinks about the home he just bought in Birmingham. They always said not to buy a house or you’d get traded; José should have known when he closed the deal on the house that he’d get traded. He’d been living out of condos and apartments—nice condos and nice apartments, granted—since he came to Detroit, and he’d finally felt secure enough to invest some of his nest egg into a nice house in a beautiful suburb. The perfect place for him to, perhaps, get married and start a family.

José sighs, resting a hand on his locker shelf. His fingers graze a small picture frame and he picks it up. José and his father in Red Sox hats just weeks after his father joined him in the States after he defected. His father’s eyes were clear and sharp, and his spine was straight. They’re both smiling; they look happy.

A hand closes gently over José’s elbow and he turns his head.

James McCann offers José a grim smile and a small nod, an act of solidarity. But what does McCann know? He won’t be traded come July. It’s not to say that they team looks at him as one of their building blocks; it’s more that no one wants to trade for him. 

José supposes he should feel fortunate that the Padres wanted him badly enough that they were willing to part with something the Tigers wanted just as much.

“Sorry to see you go,” McCann says.

He sounds sincere, like he actually means it. José doesn’t doubt for a minute that McCann is actually sorry to see him go. While they were never really friends—or acquaintances for that matter—McCann is the type of guy who always had a smile and an ear to lend for each of his teammates, no matter how much or how little he liked them.

“Thanks,” José says, dropping his head and staring at the bottom of his locker. 

There are still more and more piles of socks, arm bands, dirt-caked cleats for him to pack. Maybe he can leave it to the clubhouse attendants.

“Good luck in San Diego,” McCann says, his hand still resting lightly over José’s elbow.

José turns his head to look at him again. “Thanks,” he echoes, wondering. “Is there... Did you wanna say something?”

McCann finally pulls his hand back. “I just wanted to let you know I liked havin’ you as a teammate,” he says.

José wonders if there’s a point to this conversation. 

José still has to finish packing and then get a flight out to St. Louis, where the Padres are playing the Cardinals. He has to figure out what to do with his father—hell, he still doesn’t know how to break it to _Papá_ that he’s moving him, yet again. 

Something must show on José’s face because McCann’s brows knit over his eyes in a look of concern. Like he thinks José might start crying or try to cling onto his leg and refuse to leave, or something.

“You gonna be okay?” McCann asks, slipping his hand from José’s elbow to his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

José frowns, his brow creasing. “I don’t...” 

José trails off, unsure of what else to say. This isn’t the conversation he expected to be having in the clubhouse after his trade. He’d thought maybe Avila or Gardenhire would have come to offer some final, parting words. Instead, it’s McCann with his look of brotherly concern and his soft, gentle words.

McCann leans in, his arm wrapping around José’s shoulders to pull him into a hug. José slips his arms around his waist and melts into it. 

It’s nice. 

José tips up onto his toes because, otherwise, his face just ends up smushed into McCann’s chest and he can’t breathe. 

He must miscalculate, though, because his lips end up grazing the corner of McCann’s mouth as he tries to rearrange himself. 

José steps back, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, backing away, turning back to his locker.

McCann just stands there, quiet but for his breathing. Then, after a long, contemplative silence, he says: “It’s okay.“

José dumps off the rest of his stuff in the cardboard box and when he picks it up and turns to go, McCann is still there. 

“What—” José begins, but he cuts himself short when McCann leans forward and takes the box from him. 

José says nothing, just lifts his eyebrows in question.

“I’ve got a few minutes before my group heads out for B.P.,” McCann says, still quiet. Still thoughtful. “I can help.”

“I don’t need any help,” José says, but he’s thinking _Yes. Thank you. I don’t want to do this alone_.

McCann sees through him. “Let me.” He takes the box and turns, carrying it toward the exit. 

José follows, pulling his phone out of his pocket and glancing down at the dark screen. He unlocks the homescreen and brings up his father’s number. He hits the icon—his father’s smiling, wizened face—and presses the phone to his ear.

After a couple rings: “ _¡Digame!”  
_

His father sounds more like himself today than he did the last time they spoke.

“ _Papá_ ,” José says, as he follows McCann out to the parking lot. “ _¿Qué bolá contigo?_ ”

His father laughs, a dry, raspy, familiar sound. It reminds him of home, of Havana. And how he doesn’t have a home anymore.

McCann stops in front of José’s car and rests the box on his hip. He looks silly standing with José’s box of stuff, wearing his batting practice jersey and shower shoes, but José keeps his comments to himself. 

Instead, he tells his father he’s been traded but, like José had expected, it doesn’t matter. His father asks him, “Traded? To Detroit?” and José realizes he’s confused.

José lets him think the Red Sox have traded him to the Tigers and hangs up a few minutes later, feeling like he’s just been kicked in the chest. But it’ll be fine. His father’s memory comes and goes like the tides; some days he thinks it’s five years ago, other days he’s just fine.

“You gonna be okay?” McCann brings the box over to José. 

“Yeah. Thank you.” José takes the box from him and, without really putting much thought behind it, sets it on the ground to wrap his arms around McCann in a fierce hug. 

He can feel McCann‘s surprise as his body goes stiff, but he still puts his arm around José and holds onto him for a moment before they separate.

“Good luck in San Diego, José,” McCann says.

“You too,” José says, pulling his keys out. 

McCann turns and heads back toward the park.

José turns and looks at his car, and then the cardboard box on the ground. He thinks about his father, stuck five years ago. He thinks about the future. 

He’ll sign a nice contract, José thinks, as he pops the trunk and puts the box inside. He’ll get a good deal and he’ll pay for his father to stay with him. No more homes or centers. He’ll get a live-in nurse. 

He thinks about McCann and the rough, sandpapery feel of his cheek against his lips. And how he didn’t pull away like José had expected him to when he realized he’d kissed him.

There are a lot of things José is leaving behind in Detroit, unfinished. 

They never played in a World Series during his time here. He never won a Gold Glove with the Olde English D on his chest. They only made the postseason once. 

And maybe McCann, too.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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